<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>a long leap of faith by nightcalling</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23455564">a long leap of faith</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcalling/pseuds/nightcalling'>nightcalling</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Book Tours, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:56:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,869</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23455564</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcalling/pseuds/nightcalling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Actually.” Beverly clasps her hands together. “Mike’s here.”</p><p>Bill feels his grin freeze in place. “Wh—What?” His bagel slides off the plate and onto the floor before he can get it under control. He looks down at it, then back at his laptop screen. </p><p>*</p><p>Or, it takes an impending book tour for Bill to learn that it was never about the physical distance when it came to him and Mike.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough &amp; Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough &amp; Richie Tozier, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a long leap of faith</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I started this back in October, got distracted by life and <i>1917</i> in between December and now, and then finally decided to finish it up. This was originally supposed to be a short one-shot, but it spiraled out of control and turned into a 10k+ concoction of tropes. Features lots of meddling Beverly, because I love her.</p><p>Title is from Take That’s “When We Were Young.”</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s a list of cities in the e-mail he’s just opened.</p><p>“What,” Bill says, index finger tapping the top of his cellphone, “am I looking at?”</p><p>“The stops for your book tour,” states his agent, a hint of <em>obviously</em> lurking in her tone when she points it out. “You’ll be starting here in LA before heading to Portland.”</p><p>“There are…twenty places on here,” he counts, shoving his glasses onto his forehead and rubbing at his eyes. “Paula, please tell me you’re joking.”</p><p>She exhales impatiently. “We’ve discussed this. Multiple times.” Her voice crackles noisily, as expected of the shitty reception he gets way out here in his cabin.</p><p>He moves his cellphone to his other ear. “Did we?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“But, the movie, it’s not done yet, they might need me, I’ve got to—”</p><p>“It’s in post-production.” Bill can sense Paula pinching her nose, that tell-tale sign indicating she’s not buying whatever bullshit is being fed to her. “There’s nothing else for you to do there.”</p><p>“You don’t know that. What if there are reshoots? Then they’ll definitely—”</p><p>“Please don’t. You’re going.”</p><p>He sighs. Well, he can’t say he didn’t try.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t have anything against book tours. The critical world isn’t exactly subtle with its disdain for his…less than crowd-pleasing books, but he’s, amazingly, still amassed some loyal fans. Meeting people who connect with the twisted worlds inside his head is a way of comfort, and it’s nice knowing there are complete strangers who might know him better than the people he talks to on a daily basis.</p><p>At least, that’s what he used to think.</p><p>Thing is, after Derry, after going back and learning the truth behind his sleepless nights, after finally understanding why he can pull the macabre out of thin air like it’s nothing…it’s put an entirely new perspective on everything he’s ever written.</p><p>It’s been more than two years since then, so he’s not surprised that he’s not forgetting anymore. Some of the details have inevitably faded with time, but it never takes much to bring them roaring back to life.</p><p>The most unexpected jolt was when he received a second pristine, white envelope addressed to him about six months after he returned to LA. The moment he saw <em>Mike Hanlon</em> inscribed on the front, he didn’t know if his heart was racing because he was afraid that the letter was going to be similar to Stan’s, or because it reminded him of the way he felt when he told Mike that he loved him too.</p><p>It was probably a mixture of the two, if he’s honest. The drums inside his chest slowed by a tempo when he pulled out a photo strip of the seven of them along with a note that read, <em>In case you lost yours.</em></p><p>Then, the drums sped back up when he saw <em>Love, Mike </em>scribbled on the bottom. That gave a pretty good indication of why his hands were so clammy and why he kept rewriting the same sentence the rest of the day.</p><p><em>Did Mikey send one of these to you?</em> he’d texted to Richie, along with a picture of the photo strip. He finally did it after pacing back and forth for a solid five minutes and decidedly working up the courage to ask, because he had to know.</p><p><strong><em>nah but i’m not surprised</em></strong>, Richie sent back barely a few seconds later, <strong><em>you were always his favorite</em></strong></p><p>
  <em>I don’t believe that.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>i know right? </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>makes no sense bc i am clearly superior to you in every way imaginable</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Rich…</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>i mean if mike’s gotta fall for someone it’s gotta be yours truly </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>what do you got that i don’t?</em> </strong>
</p><p><em>Jesus.</em> He really should’ve been smarter than to ask <em>Richie</em>, of all people.</p><p>The photo strip and its custom frame he ordered off Aaron Brothers are both hanging in his study, near the window so that he can see it whenever he decides to take his coffee there. As for the note…well, if it’s lodged behind his driver’s license in his wallet, nobody has to know.</p><p>(He wonders, every time he sees the corner of the note peeking out when he grabs his credit card or some cash, if this is what Ben felt like during those twenty-seven years, keeping an anonymous girl’s name in his wallet.)</p><p>Anyway, point is, he’s not ready to go back out there and hear the same chorus of <em>I relate to this character so well</em> and its derivatives because he can’t believe that anyone could truly understand the inside of his head anymore.</p><p>The people who could come close are scattered across the world like stars in the night sky. They’ve kept in touch, texts and phone calls and <em>never ever let them go</em> and whatnot, but life goes by faster than he’d like it to, and the world turns regardless. It’s already been hard finding the perfect alignment of time zones to FaceTime each other, let alone meeting in person unless it was a special occasion.</p><p>It fucking sucks because he knows that he was the one who made them swear an oath those many summers ago. He made them promise—to kill <em>It</em>, yes, but he also knows he did it for himself, because he didn’t want to think of a time when they’d eventually drift apart. At least the oath guaranteed they’d see each other again, just one more time at the very least.</p><p>And even that didn’t work in the end, because the lucky seven was already no more by the time twenty-seven years rolled by.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>“Am I a selfish person, Bev?” he asks the next morning over cold coffee and a blueberry bagel.</p><p>Onscreen, Beverly tilts her head. “Of course not. Where’s this coming from?”</p><p>He picks at the bagel, turning it over and over on the plate. “I don’t know,” he lies.</p><p>“Stop torturing that poor bagel,” Beverly says, the sides of her lips quirking up in amusement. “And stop torturing yourself.” It’s stern, but kind, the way she says it. He’s always loved this side of her. Beverly was always the strongest out of all of them.</p><p>He musters a smile for her. “Nothing gets past you.”</p><p>“All these years later and you still don’t give me enough credit,” she huffs, feigning indignance, and seeing her like this makes him feel better. Beverly’s slowly grown more confident with every passing day. Slowly healing.</p><p>“New York’s been treating you well.”</p><p>“I really thought I wouldn’t like it,” Beverly agrees. “Guess I’ve got Ben’s promotion to thank.” She leans back against her seat, and that’s when Bill sees the bed made cleanly behind her. It’s only like that whenever she sleeps on the couch in the living room instead.</p><p>“Ben’s still in Shanghai?” No wonder he hasn’t been responding to his texts.</p><p>Beverly nods. “His trip got extended. Now he’s coming back next Friday.”</p><p>“You must be partying in his absence,” he teases.</p><p>“Actually.” Beverly clasps her hands together. “Mike’s here.”</p><p>Bill feels his grin freeze in place. “Wh—What?” His bagel slides off the plate and onto the floor before he can get it under control. He looks down at it, then back at his laptop screen.</p><p>“He’s been visiting,” she explains. “He didn’t say anything?”</p><p>“Definitely not.”</p><p>“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” she says, eyebrow arching up. “He’s here.”</p><p>Did he miss some sort of memo? “When was this?”</p><p>“He got here a week ago, maybe? Just missed Ben.”</p><p>“Just you and him, huh?” Bill scrolls through his phone, coming up with nothing. “Didn’t know Mikey had it in him.”</p><p>Beverly gives him an unimpressed look. “I know you’re joking but even you’ve gotta realize that’s ridiculous when we both know Mike is—”</p><p>Three knocks come echoing from behind her.</p><p>“Hold on.” Beverly lowers her laptop screen, and he can see her keyboard and her legs as she walks away.</p><p>“Sorry, were you in the middle of something?” Mike’s low voice is barely audible in the distance, but it drifts slowly over and Bill cranes forward, hoping it’ll help him hear better.</p><p>Unfortunately, Beverly’s voice is too quiet for him to pick up on anything, so he retrieves the bagel off the ground and waits in the kitchen with only his nerves accompanying him. It seems like an eternity, the clock ticking incessantly before Beverly comes back and raises the screen.</p><p>“I almost forgot, but we’re going to the New York Public Library today, so we have to leave,” she says, apologetic.</p><p>Bill’s chest blooms warmly at the thought of Mike traveling all the way up the country just to drag Beverly to a library. Typical Mike. “Have fun.”</p><p>Beverly hesitates, looking like she’s mulling something over. “How long do you have before your tour starts?”</p><p>“Uh…I don’t—I don’t know, Paula and I haven’t really hashed out the details yet, probably soon, I’d think—”</p><p>“Do you want to come over?”</p><p>He nearly drops his mug. He’s dropping a lot of things today. “Like, right now?”</p><p>She crosses her arms. “Of course, I don’t mean <em>at this very minute</em>. I mean, do you want to come hang out with us for a couple of days? Mike’s here until Sunday before he goes off to…Boston? DC? I keep forgetting which it is.”</p><p>“They’re not remotely the same.”</p><p>“Well?”</p><p>He flexes his fingers around the mug, then puts it down before he accidentally drops it again. “Are you sure?”</p><p>Beverly looks fond. “Why’re you being so polite? You’re always welcome here. Losers forever, right?”</p><p>
  <em>And don’t ever forget…</em>
</p><p>“Losers forever,” Bill agrees softly. It’ll only take half a day to fly to New York. Maybe it’ll be a nice change of pace, help clear his mind before the tour.</p><p>Although, with Mike there, he’s pretty sure the next few days will simply confuse him even more.</p><p>Maybe he shouldn’t think about that. He should probably give Beverly an answer.</p><p>“I’ll be there tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Mike comes to pick him up at the airport, even though 1) he told Beverly that he could find his way, and 2) she had promised that she’d be the one to come. Clearly, she was a liar and a bad friend to boot.</p><p>“Hey,” Mike says, pulling him in for a loose hug.</p><p>Bill drops the bag he’s holding. “Hi.”</p><p>“Let me get that for you.”</p><p>Before Bill can move, Mike swoops down (he is <em>so tall</em>) and lifts the bag up by its handle in one smooth motion.</p><p>“What the hell do you have in this thing?” Mike asks good-naturedly.</p><p>“Only my life’s work, so be careful with that.”</p><p>“No way your laptop weighs this much.” Mike lifts the bag up and down twice. “You bring your entire library with you or something?”</p><p>“That sounds more like your style, doesn’t it?” It’s all so familiar, the way they’re talking like this, and it’s so easy to fall back into this pattern. “There’s a novel I need to review by the end of the week, and they sent a hardcopy, and I’ve been, uh, putting it off.”</p><p>Mike hums. “Reminds me of when a bunch of high school kids asked me to read their college essays.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Mike laughs, eyes crinkling. Bill feels an urge to trace his fingers over the wrinkles. “They were so bad.”</p><p>Bill shoves his hands into his jean pockets before he can do anything stupid and impulsive like caress Mike’s entire face. “Derry High didn’t exactly have the best writing program.”</p><p>Mike’s laughter mellows into a small smile. “Didn’t stop you, though.”</p><p>Bill looks down, cheeks tinted and overwhelmed. He’s used to praise but not like this, direct and with a current of affection running under it. “Thanks.”</p><p>“Ben and Bev’s place is in the city,” Mike says. “It’ll be about an hour’s drive.”</p><p>When Mike leads them to a black BMW that’s parked in a corner space, Bill whistles in approval. “Nice car.”</p><p>“It’s Bev’s, been wanting to give it a test run ever since I laid eyes on it.” Mike puts the bag in the trunk, where it lands with a dull thud. “I’m not that rich.”</p><p>“I didn’t—” Bill colors. He really needs to think twice before speaking. “I didn’t mean it like that.”</p><p>“Chill, I’m just messing with you,” Mike says with a light chuckle. “But it’s true that we librarians don’t make enough to afford BMWs, even though we’re the backbone of society. You probably do.”</p><p>“I get by,” Bill mutters as he slides into the front seat and closes the door.</p><p>Mike eyes him before putting the keys into the ignition. “Whatever you say.”</p><p>“How was the library?” Bill asks, trying to change the subject.</p><p>Mike looks over, confusion brief in his eyes before it clears up and he turns back toward the front. “We rescheduled for tomorrow.”</p><p>“Something else come up?”</p><p>“Thought you’d want to come too, so yeah, I guess you could say that.”</p><p>Bill’s heart thumps in his chest, the dastardly thing. “Oh.”</p><p>“Not saying you have to come, I know you’re busy, but if you want to…”</p><p>“That’d be—That’d be nice, yeah.”</p><p>Mike glances over once more, fast and easy. “Great. We’ll tell Bev when we’re there.”</p><p>He actually planned to spend the entire trip holed up inside the house, get some work down, maybe pop out occasionally to eat or drink beer with the two of them, but how the fuck is he supposed to say no to that? Bill settles into the silence of the BMW as they speed down the highway, coming to terms with the fact that he’s not going to make it through the next few days in one piece.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Beverly is glowing when she runs down the long, long driveway to greet them, with Ember bounding along close behind. “You made it!” She pinches Bill on the cheek, the same time that Ember starts drooling all over his leg.</p><p>“She’s huge,” Bill exclaims, bending down to pet Ember. “How old is she now?”</p><p>“Almost five. She’s a big girl.”</p><p>“You got off easy, she pounced on me when I got here,” Mike says, then gestures to Bill with a thumb. “By the way, make that three for the library tomorrow.”</p><p>“Is that so,” Beverly says evenly. Her eyes are twinkling, which only means trouble, knowing her.</p><p>“You delayed it for me, the least I could do is to tag along,” Bill says. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s enough.</p><p>“Wasn’t my idea,” Beverly says, looking at Mike meaningfully. “C’mon, let’s go inside.”</p><p>The house is a lot bigger than it looks on a laptop screen. The living room leads to a kitchen and a bathroom before the hallway splits into the door to the garage and the stairs to the second floor. There’s a backyard filled to the brim with roses and tulips and daffodils and a stone path running down the middle, meeting a small fountain near the edge. Bill always thought that large houses would feel impersonal and haunted, but this one is so charming and full of life and it’s completely different from his own place.</p><p>“It’s beautiful.” He looks up at where a small chandelier is hanging over the living area. “Ben really knocked this one outta the park.”</p><p>“You wouldn’t believe how long it took to fully renovate the place,” Beverly says, coming over with three mugs and a bowl of crackers on a tray. “Tea?”</p><p>Bill takes the closest mug. “Must be a lot to maintain.”</p><p>“Cleaning helps me concentrate when I’m stuck with my own thoughts and work,” Beverly says, curling down next to Bill on the couch. “Which happens a lot.”</p><p>“I try to stay out of her way,” Mike adds from the other side of Bill.</p><p>“Shush, it’s been great having you here,” Beverly chides, biting down on a cracker. “I could do without all the extra knowledge about the Dewey Decimal System, though.”</p><p>Bill laughs as Mike complains, “It’s the only thing preventing our world from descending into chaos!”</p><p>“I came downstairs and found him watching some documentary about it on Netflix yesterday,” Beverly continues, waving her hand at the TV, “right after I talked to you.”</p><p>“You were taking a while,” Mike defends. “What’s a guy to do with all this time on his hands?”</p><p>Beverly reaches across Bill and pushes Mike. “Next time I won’t let you stay at my house.”</p><p>Mike grabs one cracker and pretends to throw it at her. “It’s part Ben’s house, I’ll stay in his half.”</p><p>Bill looks between the two of them as they continue trading quips, a warmth spreading through his chest. “This is nice.”</p><p>They stop to look at him, and he feels his face flush. “I—I mean, it—it—it’s nice hearing you guys like this again. Even if we’re not all, um, not all here.”</p><p>Beverly takes one of his hands in hers and squeezes tightly, the same time that Mike lays a palm gently behind his back, just a few millimeters away from the base of his neck.</p><p>“Thanks for coming,” Beverly says, which is, somehow, exactly what he needed to hear.</p><p>He smiles. “Right.”</p><p>It’s only when Mike begins rubbing circles into the base of his head that he realizes Mike has moved his palm up to rest on his neck. He resists shivering, his nape sensitive to the touch. It doesn’t work, though, and he notices Beverly watching Mike’s movement from the corner of his eyes.</p><p>“I’m sure you’re jetlagged,” Beverly says, withdrawing her hand to rest on his knee. “Why don’t I show you to the guest room?”</p><p>Bill follows her dutifully up the stairs, bag in both hands. When Beverly pushes open a door and reveals a room with signs of already being lived in, he realizes belatedly that she said <em>the guest room</em> earlier, singular.</p><p>“Wait.” He puts the bag down.</p><p>“It’s the only guest room we have,” she says, face looking sorry but her tone is anything but.</p><p>“Ben didn’t think to add more than one guest room to your ginormous house?” He’s going to kill Ben the next time he sees him.</p><p>Beverly twists her lips wryly. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”</p><p>He sighs. “Please don’t tell me you planned this.”</p><p>“Yes, I told Ben to specifically design one guest room just to torture you.” Beverly puts a hand on her hip, doing poorly at containing her laughter. “Look, I can go back to sleeping in my and Ben’s room, and you can take the couch. Or you could take our room, instead.”</p><p>“No, I can’t ask you to do that.” He knows Beverly prefers sleeping by herself downstairs whenever Ben’s not home, and sleeping in their room would be…weird. And this is her place, anyway, he can’t make her change her habits for him. “It’s fine.”</p><p>“At least there are two beds?” she supplies, still secretly laughing, the absolute nerve of her.</p><p>He hauls his bag over to the empty bed on the other side of the room. “At least there are two beds,” he agrees. Yeah—he’s definitely not going to make it out in one piece.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>He must’ve dozed off in the middle of unpacking, because when he blinks his eyes open, the sun is setting and there’s a faint smell of tomatoes wafting through the door from downstairs. His stomach grumbles when he sits up and his hand hits the spine of the book he’s supposed to review.</p><p>Eat first, work later.</p><p>He sees an array of measuring cups and bowls littering the kitchen when he walks in. “Smells good.”</p><p>Beverly turns, and he tries not to laugh at the sight of pepper dusted across her nose and cheeks. “Mike’s trying to teach me how to make pasta but, uh, it’s not going well.”</p><p>Mike grins from where he’s leaning against the sink. “She’s got a ways to go.” He holds up a cookbook. “We’re still on step two of the sauce.”</p><p>Bill rolls up his sleeves. “Can I help?”</p><p>Between him and Beverly and Mike doing his best not to micromanage, they eventually get something resembling noodles onto the dining table an hour and a half later.</p><p>“I don’t know how you two survived this long into adulthood,” Mike says, handing them each a napkin before getting plates and forks from the cupboard.</p><p>Beverly takes a plate from Mike. “Thanks. You’re gonna know the inside of this house better than I will by the end.”</p><p>“Don’t say that, otherwise he’ll want to stay here forever,” Bill says, trying and failing to wipe the extra sauce off his forearms.</p><p>Mike places a plate down in front of him. “There are other places I’d rather be. No offense, Bev.”</p><p>Beverly hides a smile behind her fork. “I get it.”</p><p>Bill thinks he’s missing some sort of inside joke, because Beverly is looking at him with something akin to a smirk, and it’s sending him off-balance. He picks up his own fork, stabbing into the mound of hopefully-edible pasta sitting in the middle of the table and dumping a small helping onto his plate.</p><p>“This turned out alright,” he says, after taking a bite.</p><p>“It could’ve been worse,” Mike says. “But not much worse.”</p><p>Beverly chucks a crouton at him.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Despite the mini impromptu nap he had earlier, he’s pretty wiped by the time they finish eating and cleaning up. It makes no sense because his body is supposed to be three hours behind New York, but he’s always had more trouble adjusting forward than backward. He’s ready to fall back asleep around nine p.m.</p><p>“You don’t mind if I stay up a bit, do you?” Mike asks when they’re both upstairs.</p><p>Bill yawns. “No, I can fall asleep practically under any situation. Do your worst.” He flops down on his bed, not bothering to change into his sweats and t-shirt.</p><p>Mike says something else, but Bill doesn’t register a single word before turning onto his side and letting the sleep take him.</p><p>He thinks it’s morning when hands reach out to move his shoulders, gently, so he opens his eyes and is confused when he’s met with darkness out the window, and Mike towering over him with a towel around his waist and a blanket in his hands.</p><p>“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” Mike says, too close and smelling like lavender shampoo. “I was just trying to get you under your covers. It gets cold here at night.”</p><p>Bill really wants to say <em>Then why the fuck aren’t you wearing a shirt you fuck</em> or even <em>This isn’t what I meant when I said to do your worst you asshole</em>, but he doesn’t, because he’s civilized, and he’s not so out of it as to forget his manners.</p><p>“You aren’t wearing anything,” is what comes out of his mouth instead. And, because he’s the king of smooth, his mouth adds, “You, um, you—you smell good.”</p><p>Mike blinks. “I took a shower.”</p><p>“I.” Bill gulps. “I see that.”</p><p>“You were shivering, so.”</p><p>He was? “I was? Thanks, then.” He takes the blanket from Mike and turns the other direction, burying his head in the pillow and muffling out a “g’night,” because he doesn’t know how to get out of this situation gracefully, and that’s all he can come up with. He’s tired, okay? He’s allowed a pass.</p><p>He senses Mike hover by his side for a few more seconds before walking away, presumably to put some clothes on. He kind of wants to turn back around and see if Mike did, but that would be creepy, and an invasion of privacy, so he stays put and tries to fall back asleep again.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>The light streams directly into his eyes when he wakes, and he furrows his eyebrows as he props himself up, trying to readjust to the room.</p><p>Mike is breathing slowly and steadily from the other bed, and for reasons Bill can’t explain, it calms him down. It reminds him of what his speech therapist said once, to focus on his own breathing when the words don’t come out right.</p><p>He watches Mike’s form move up and down in tandem with his breathing, lost in the comfort, and he thinks that he could get used to the sight.</p><p>It’s a dangerous thought.</p><p>He grabs his toiletries and a change of fresh clothes from his bag and tiptoes quietly to the bathroom.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>“Awake already?” Beverly asks from the couch. She’s already dressed and looking like she’s on her second cup of coffee.</p><p>Bill shrugs. His writer’s body is used to waking up before the crack of dawn, so after factoring in the time difference, the fact that it’s just after seven doesn’t really surprise him. He grabs a clean mug and reaches for the freshly brewed pot sitting on the coffee table.</p><p>“Nothing keep you up?” she asks, eyes peering over the top of her tablet as he pours himself a cup.</p><p>He tilts his head pointedly at her. “Do I want to know why you’re asking me that?”</p><p>She shrugs, continuing to scroll at whatever she’s reading. “It’s a simple question. I take my job as hostess very seriously.”</p><p>“Sure.” He takes a sip of the coffee, then puts a sugar cube in.</p><p>Beverly offers him a spoon. “Do you want cream?”</p><p>“Why do you always buy the really dark roasts?” He makes a face, then puts another cube in, stirring rapidly. “No, thanks.”</p><p>“Suit yourself.” She taps a few times at her screen, then turns it around. “Ben wants to say hi.”</p><p>Ben’s face pops up before Bill can decide whether he wants to finish his coffee or not.</p><p>“I can’t believe you guys are having fun without me,” Ben laments. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and looking rather spiffy. Between him and Beverly, they’re putting Bill’s casual plaid to shame.</p><p>“Is it night over there?” Bill asks, tugging absentmindedly at the hem of his shirt.</p><p>“Yeah. Just got back from a…ah, rather eventful dinner.”</p><p>“Ooh, babe.” Beverly scrunches her nose. “You only say that when it’s really terrible.”</p><p>“Oh yeah,” Ben agrees, taking off his tie and tossing it somewhere offscreen. “Complaints were made. Insults were traded. Same old story.”</p><p>“Just sit back and watch the drama,” Bill suggests, “that’s what Richie would say.”</p><p>“I think he might actually be better qualified to handle this shit than I am,” Ben says with a laugh. “He sent me a list of reasons why I should hire him to be my personal ‘Situation Un-Fucker.’ Whatever that means.”</p><p>“He’d probably just feed the flames,” Bill says, still stirring his coffee.</p><p>“You should bring him with you next time,” Beverly says, waggling her eyebrows. “He’d be happy to lighten the mood. I bet he’d even do it for free.”</p><p>“Don’t give him any ideas,” Ben warns. “Although…”</p><p>“It’d be nice to see him,” Beverly agrees. “It’s more fun when he’s around.”</p><p>“How’s Mike? Sucks that we missed each other by a day.”</p><p>“He’s good. He’s sharing the—”</p><p>“The guest room with Bill?” Ben asks, grinning.</p><p>“Okay,” Bill interjects, putting a third, fourth cube into his coffee. “We get it, you finish each other’s sentences, it’s adorable.”</p><p>“Tell him this wasn’t planned,” Beverly urges. “Tell him.”</p><p>“Bill, I swear this wasn’t planned,” Ben complies seriously. “But you’ve gotta admit it worked out pretty well, right?”</p><p>“You two,” Bill says, downing the rest of the coffee in one go, “are the worst.”</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Ben hangs up around ten minutes later. Bill wants to think it’s because Ben is the nicest out of all of them and decided to show mercy on him, but it’s probably because he has another meeting the next morning and wants to get some shut eye.</p><p>“Mike’s usually an early riser,” Beverly comments, peering at the hallway. “I thought you’d be the one to sleep in.”</p><p>“I wish, but there’s still a book waiting to be reviewed.”</p><p>“Well, I made a breakfast run earlier and brought some pastries back.” She reaches behind the couch and reveals a lumpy paper bag. “I hope you like croissants.”</p><p>How the hell did she drive out, get food, <em>and</em> come back in time to brew a pot of coffee all before seven?</p><p>“I know people,” she explains, when Bill opens the bag and stares down at what looks like a pile of chocolate and ham and cheese croissants. “They let me go in early.”</p><p>“You’re becoming too powerful,” he tells her, stomach rumbling. It was probably a bad idea to drink coffee before something solid was in his stomach.</p><p>“Mike likes the ham and cheese,” Beverly hints. “Maybe you should bring him one.”</p><p>Bill narrows his eyes. “He’s sleeping.”</p><p>She takes out a chocolate croissant and bites into it. “You should,” she says in between chews.</p><p>“Gross,” he tells her, but he goes into the kitchen to get some plates, anyway.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Mike is, in fact, not sleeping when Bill heads upstairs with a tray of two ham and cheeses and two coffees, with both cream and sugar this time.</p><p>“Bev says we’re leaving for the library around one?” Bill asks, settling the tray down on the nightstand in between their beds.</p><p>Mike looks up from his laptop at the clatter. “Did she wake up before—”</p><p>“Yep. She said you like the—”</p><p>“Yeah.” Mike takes a plate and cuts the croissant on it in half. “Thanks.”</p><p>Bill is bending down to pick the book he brought off the ground when he hears, “Honey?” The whiplash he gets from snapping his neck up burns, badly.</p><p>“Ex—Ex—Excuse me?” he stammers, face flushing.</p><p>“I usually take honey with this,” Mike says, gesturing to the croissant. “Bev didn’t give you any?”</p><p><em>Beverly fucking Hanscom-Marsh.</em> “No. I—I need to get some things done before the afternoon, so can you, uh, can you get some yourself?”</p><p>“I wasn’t going to ask you to...” Mike trails off, furrowing his eyebrows. “Are you okay?”</p><p>“Fine,” Bill says, voice high. “Still tired from traveling, I think.”</p><p>Mike nods, looking concerned. Bill stuffs his own croissant into his own mouth, flakes falling everywhere as he props the book open in his lap, highlighter in hand.</p><p>It’s actually pretty good. The writing is clear, the hook is solid, and the intended core romance doesn’t make him want to roll his eyes. He has a few sticky notes tabbed near the end of the third of ten chapters when his cellphone rings.</p><p>“Paula?” He looks over at Mike’s bed, but Mike isn’t in the room anymore, so he stays put and takes the call where he is.</p><p>“We have a finalized schedule for the tour. I’ll forward it to you after it’s processed.”</p><p>Bill grimaces, glad that Paula’s not here to see it. He loves her, but sometimes, he forgets how down-to-business she can get and it can be a little exhausting. “Great.”</p><p>“At least try to pretend to be excited?” Paula asks, amusement leaking through. “Anyway, I wanted to ask if you could make a trip to the Warner Bros. studio sometime next week to talk through some logistics.”</p><p>He perks up. “Do they need me for—”</p><p>“No, not for the movie,” she says, and he deflates. “The Barnes and Noble staff in LA asked if you’re willing to do a book reading in addition to the book signing and speech and all that.”</p><p>“A—A book reading? Do they know.” He stops. “Do they know about…”</p><p>“No, that’s yours to tell.” Paula’s voice is soft, and it reminds him that even though Paula can be exhausting, she can also be gentle. “You don’t have to decide now, and you’re not obligated to do it. There are other details we need to talk about for the tour, but this…I wanted to let you know ahead of time.”</p><p>“Not mean enough to just spring it on me, huh?”</p><p>“Not quite.”</p><p>Bill smiles. “Thanks. I’ll swing by next Wednesday.”</p><p>“Okay. Have fun in New York,” she says, hanging up. He has no idea how she knew where he was when he didn’t even tell her he’d left California, but he’s not really surprised. He tosses his phone back on the bed, getting ready to dive into chapter four, when there’s a knock on the door.</p><p>“Hey,” Mike says.</p><p>“You don’t have to knock,” Bill says, a little too fondly. “This is your room too.”</p><p>“You were in the middle of something,” is Mike’s reply, and it makes Bill think of how he FaceTimed Bev and was interrupted by Mike then. It seems like eons ago.</p><p>“Nothing too important.”</p><p>Mike walks over slowly and sits down on the edge of his bed that faces Bill’s. “I overheard you talking about a book reading. That’s pretty important.”</p><p>“I’ve done them before.”</p><p>“I know.” Mike has his hands clasped together in his lap, thumbs fidgeting. “Is it because it’s the first book since…since then?”</p><p><em>Since then.</em> “Something like that.”</p><p>Mike hesitates before speaking. “Your agent…”</p><p>“Paula.”</p><p>“She knows? About…?”</p><p>“Derry? No. Not—No, not any of the—the details, that’s ours, yours and mine and Bev’s and Ben’s and Richie’s and—and—and—” he cuts off, swallowing thickly. “Yeah, it’s ours, b—b—but…” His voice is trembling, and so is his hand, and he thinks he feels his entire body shaking with it.</p><p>Mike moves to sit down at the foot of Bill’s bed, laying a hand carefully on Bill’s thigh, an echo of that first night back in Derry, in the library. Bill wants to laugh, because it seems like he’s always freaking out about something and Mike’s always there to calm him down.</p><p><em>Focus on your breathing</em>, Bill reminds himself. He closes his eyes and exhales in and out, once, then once more. “She knows how important the book is to me.”</p><p>After squeezing Bill’s thigh gently, Mike withdraws his hand, but only until it’s resting gently against one of Bill’s ankles instead. “Are you going to do it?”</p><p>Bill runs his fingers over the ends of the sticky notes. “Maybe. Depends.” He expects Mike to ask, <em>on what?</em> But he doesn’t, and it’s just as well, because Bill doesn’t know what it would take for him to say yes, either.</p><p>He knows he doesn’t have to, but he wants to. Somewhere, deep down.</p><p>“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Mike says.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Mike suggests going into town early to grab lunch, but Beverly suddenly reveals she has to take Ember to the vet, and that it might take all afternoon.</p><p>“It’s time for her yearly checkup and it completely slipped my mind because I made the appointment months ago. Sorry, but I think you’ll have to go without me.”</p><p>She fools Mike pretty well, because Mike offers to go with her, or at least to drop her off at the clinic on the way, but Beverly insists that none of that’s necessary.</p><p>“I can drive myself. Just make sure you two have enough fun for me at the library.” She does a good job of looking remorseful, which is impressive considering she was never really the bookish type.</p><p>“They should cast you in one of my movies next time,” Bill tells her when Mike’s out of earshot.</p><p>“You’re welcome,” Beverly says, smiling and pushing him in the direction of where Mike’s waiting outside. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” she yells after him.</p><p>“What was that about?” Mike asks after they’ve backed out of the driveway.</p><p>“Nothing,” Bill mutters, glaring at Beverly in the rearview mirror.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>a little bird tells me you have a date with mike</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>That little bird is a liar and forcibly removed herself from what was supposed to be a GROUP ACTIVITY.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Also, it’s not a date.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>i’ll have you know the internet says the definition of a date is </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>and i quote</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>a social engagement between two persons that often has a romantic character</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Your point is?</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>this definition is from merriam webster</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>So?</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>it’s your fav dictionary</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>I don’t have a favorite dictionary.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>right</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>I don’t.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>you got drunk and told me once so try again</em> </strong>
</p><p>“Everything okay there?” Mike asks.</p><p>Bill dashes off <em>Stop talking to Bev or I’m ignoring you forever</em> before stuffing his phone into his pocket. “Splendid.”</p><p>“Who were you texting?” Mike asks when the waiter comes by with their ramen. There’s a slight edge to his voice, like he’s…tired? Annoyed? Nothing Bill can come up with sounds right, so he wonders if he’s imagining it.</p><p>The waiter puts a bottle of soy sauce down in front of them. “Would either of you like anything else?”</p><p>“No, thank you,” and Bill waits until the waiter leaves before adding, “Richie. He’s being an asshole.”</p><p>Mike smiles, relaxing noticeably. “He’s always an asshole. Napkin?”</p><p>Bill takes the napkin and spreads it out on his lap. “Why are we friends with him again?”</p><p>Mike shrugs. “Don’t look at me, he was already there when you guys dragged me into your mess.”</p><p>“I don’t think that’s quite how that happened.”</p><p>“No?” Mike challenges, and they spend the rest of their ramen and the mochi ice cream afterward arguing over who’s correct. Bill doesn’t really care who’s right, and he suspects Mike doesn’t either, because it’s simply nice, having someone to argue over unimportant things like this with.</p><p>After they finish their food and get back into the car, Bill pulls out his phone to another slew of texts.</p><p>
  <strong> <em>i will talk to whomever i like thank you very much</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>point is you’re emotionally constipated but you’re still a loser </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>which means i’m stuck with you for better or for worse</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>dude?</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>hello?</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>ok i’m guessing you guys are already boning </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>in which case congrats?</em> </strong>
</p><p>“Still Richie?” Mike asks.</p><p>“Yep,” Bill says, distracted. <em>Nothing untoward going on here, get your mind out of the gutter</em>, he sends back, trying not to flush. <em>We’re just going to the library.</em></p><p>
  <strong> <em>jesus</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>you are old</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>lmk if something interesting actually happens</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>like if you end up fucking in the stacks</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>actually</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>don’t tell me bc that’s gross and i don’t need that in my life</em> </strong>
</p><p>Bill rolls his eyes. He’s learned that the only way to switch Richie off is to ignore him and hope he gets distracted by something else, so Bill puts his phone on silent and does <em>not</em> think about the feeling of books digging into his back or large palms on his hips.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>“I thought we were going to the main branch,” Bill says when they pass by the Stephen A. Schwartzman building. He stood outside at the bottom of the steps when he was invited to the New York premiere of one of his films many years ago, but he never got the chance to go inside.</p><p>“Maybe later,” Mike says. “It’s pretty awesome. It has cool maps.”</p><p>Cool maps definitely sound awesome and like something Mike would be into, which is why Bill is a little surprised when they park at one of the more modern buildings that surely doesn’t house any old trinkets, maps or otherwise. He follows closely behind Mike, who hunts down one of the staff members and introduces himself.</p><p>The two get along immediately. It’s endearing, seeing them so animated, like peas in a pod. It’s also a little refreshing, not being the focus of attention in a conversation. He knows how conceited that sounds, assuming every person is going to want to talk to him, but this young woman who can’t be more than twenty-five tops either doesn’t recognize him or doesn’t care. He used to be bothered by this a lot more, pre-Derry memories, but he’s okay with it now, recently.</p><p>He tunes out after Mike and the young woman (a graduate student in library science, he learns) start discussing the merits of enumerative versus hierarchical classification systems, because he prefers writing books over organizing them, and he was already completely lost back when he heard the word <em>analytico-synthetic </em>thrown into the mix, anyway. He nudges Mike to let him know he’s going off to wander, and he heads toward the non-fiction section, walking past the children’s section. His mind must’ve shut off while he was weaving up and down the rows of shelves, because that’s the only explanation for why he accidentally ends up in the fiction section, standing face to face with his own name.</p><p>It’s strange, seeing the spines of his books lined up neatly along the shelf, the dustjackets worn and broken in. He’s used to seeing them all clean and proper in a bookstore like samples in a display case, meant to be looked at but not touched. But these, the ones that are in front of him—they've been passed along from hand to hand, and it makes him feel funny inside. He doesn’t know why he’s so hung up on it; he puts stories out into the world, so of course people would eventually find them, but seeing proof of these discoveries in front of his eyes is like witnessing soldiers carrying their battle wounds back from war, and he thinks, then, that these stories must have fought through a lot, too.</p><p>It feels like something to be proud of. Maybe it is. He hasn’t thought about it before. He’s thinking about it now, as Mike suddenly appears by his side and runs his fingers over the lettering on every book, one by one.</p><p>“Do you have a favorite?” Mike asks.</p><p>“I always tell the interviewers it’s this one,” Bill says, pointing to a book in the middle. <em>In the Shadows</em>. “Just to fuck with them because it’s the one people hate the most.”</p><p>Mike makes a noise in acknowledgement. “Well, it’s my favorite.”</p><p>“You wouldn’t say that if you’ve read all of them.”</p><p>“I have.” Mike takes the book off the shelf. “It is.”</p><p>Bill feels something like a flutter in his chest. It’s not his fault that Mike keeps saying things like <em>that</em> without noticing the effect they have. “You—You have shit taste.”</p><p>“Hey.” Mike opens the front cover. “You’re the one who wrote it.”</p><p>He remembers the day he began writing <em>In the Shadows</em> like it was yesterday. It was in the middle of April, it was the anniversary of his and Audra’s wedding, and it was raining. It was also the same day that he finally admitted to himself that there was something fundamentally missing from his life, and nothing he tried could fix it.</p><p>That’s when it began—the long hours in the office, the constant humming in his mind, the sleepless nights. He told himself he was staying up because he had deadlines to meet, but the truth is, he was churning out more books than his publisher was willing to fund, and eventually, he built up an entire life’s supply of books to keep him well-fed until retirement. Presuming anybody wanted to buy them, of course.</p><p>Somewhere along the way, his hobby became a job, the job became a chore, and the chore became a burden. Something he couldn’t shake despite his best efforts. He’d resigned to being stuck in this hell, of being Sisyphus rolling that stone up the hill only to become crushed by his achievement again, and again, and again. Words were the only thing he knew, and they were the only thing keeping him going.</p><p>Then, one day, suddenly, the words stopped coming. He didn’t necessarily need them anymore, financially, but he still wanted them for himself, despite how painful they’d become. He thought that if he couldn’t talk normally, then at least he could write.</p><p><em>Of course </em>his words eventually failed him on paper, as well. He’d laughed, an inconsolable sound that was bitter on his tongue like the aftertaste of bad wine. Maybe this was some higher power’s way of telling him he wasn’t meant to be an author.</p><p>That’s when the call came. His hand burned, his mind burned, and his entire body burned. It hurt, but it felt good. Years’ worth of repressed emotions came rushing back, raw and unrefined, and they felt more real than anything he’d ever felt during his years of living in LA. It was reassuring to know he was still able to feel something other than desperation. Seeing all of his friends again, seeing <em>Mike</em> again…it only further amplified those feelings.</p><p>He’s still learning to deal with a teenager’s chaotic thoughts in an adult’s brain. If he’s honest, he doesn’t think his body is handling the dissonance very well. Everything’s out of tune. He’s been trying to make it work, have the cogs fit together nicely, but the more he tries to fix everything (he’s always trying to fix something, he’s noticed), the more it becomes apparent that it’s not a matter of fixing things, but rather learning to live with them.</p><p>He supposes he wouldn’t have come to this realization without having written <em>In the Shadows</em>, however much he wants to forget it. Maybe it is his favorite, after all.</p><p>“It’s still a terrible book.”</p><p>Mike flips to the last page. “‘<em>I thought that my home was in the shadows, shrouded in darkness like the thoughts that keep me awake at night. But, looking out the window at the rising sun today, I’m starting to believe that there’s room for light in my life yet</em>.’”</p><p>Mike looks up, raising his eyebrows. “It’s the only one with a happy ending.”</p><p>Bill quirks his lips. He’d swapped out the original ending with this one that went to print at the last minute, and it pissed everyone off. “Everyone said it’s pretentious.”</p><p>“Isn’t that typical? People say they want happy endings but they hate it when you give it to them.”</p><p>“Maybe I’m just shit at writing happy endings.” He only tried because he wanted to know what it felt like to bring joy to another person, even if they were fictional.</p><p>“I don’t know.” Mike closes the book. “They wouldn’t say that now if they knew.”</p><p>Bill stares at Mike as he puts the book gently back on the shelf with the rest of its siblings. “Literally everyone—<em>everyone</em> hates it.”</p><p>“Well…” Mike steps forward, crowding into Bill’s space. “Clearly not everyone.”</p><p>Bill swallows, tilting his head up. “It—It’s the only one they haven’t made into a movie,” as if that ever actually determined the quality of a book, his own notwithstanding.</p><p>Mike smiles. “Okay. You’re right. There are some others that I like better.”</p><p>“Wh—Wh—What’s—” Bill clears his throat. “What’s that?”</p><p>Mike taps a finger gently on Bill’s forehead. “Whatever’s still in there.”</p><p>Bill really wants to kiss Mike. The thought hits him like a bullet to the chest, and he feels his heart bleeding out.</p><p>“The one you’re going on tour for,” Mike says. “It also has a happy ending.”</p><p>“You haven’t read it. How do you know?”</p><p>“Because I know you.”</p><p>Their hands are hovering next to each other, nearby but not touching. Bill finds that he wants to hold Mike’s hands even more than he wants to kiss Mike, but the five centimeters or so that hang between them feel like five miles.</p><p>“I don’t even know myself,” and Bill doesn’t mean for it to come out unpleasant. It just happens. Before he can do anything about it, Mike steps back again, and the five miles become five lightyears.</p><p>“I’m sor—I’m sorry,” Bill grits out. “That’s not what—That’s not what I meant. I don’t know why I said that.”</p><p>“It’s okay,” Mike says, and it makes Bill want to cry, because Mike is too kind. Too kind for Bill and the world and for Mike’s own good.</p><p>“We—We, um, d—d—did you want to look at anything else?” Bill asks, and he means in the library, in the rest of the city, inside his own heart—anywhere, really.</p><p>Mike studies him. “No. Let’s go back.”</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>“I’m headed to Boston tomorrow,” Mike says, when they’re about halfway back to Ben and Beverly’s place.</p><p>“LA for me,” Bill says. And, because the drive had been largely silent before this, and because he still feels terrible about whatever the fuck that was back in the library, he adds, “Sorry.”</p><p>“You don’t need to do that.”</p><p>“Side effect of my job, I guess.”</p><p>“Sounds exhausting.”</p><p>“Mmm. That’s not why I’m saying it, though.”</p><p>“Remember the yearbook, senior year?” Mike asks. “You were voted Most Polite.”</p><p>Bill huffs out a laugh. “I’m not sure that was a compliment.”</p><p>“Well, it was certainly not going to be anybody else.”</p><p>“Ben?”</p><p>“No way,” Mike disagrees. “With the way he cussed during those dog pageants? Hanscom’s got a hell of a mouth on him.”</p><p>“I can’t believe you remember all of that,” Bill says. They’d brought copies of the yearbooks to the clubhouse at the end of every school year because they didn’t want Mike to feel left out, and because Mike had asked. “Nobody at school actually cared about those stupid surveys.”</p><p>Mike shrugs. “It’s hard not to remember when those yearbooks were all a guy had left of his friends.”</p><p>Bill swallows down the immediate <em>sorry</em> that surfaces to his mind, knowing that Mike would just scold him again.</p><p>“You don’t need to apologize,” Mike says anyway, softly. He also sounds fond, but maybe Bill’s just projecting.</p><p>Light rain begins pattering gently against the windshield, and Mike turns on the wipers, their plastic thumping back and forth every few seconds.</p><p>“Stan should’ve been Most Likely to Succeed,” Bill says quietly, staring straight ahead at nowhere in particular.</p><p>Thump, thump, thump.</p><p>“Eddie should’ve been Most Loyal,” Mike says.</p><p>The rain comes down a little harder. “For Most Likely to Leave Derry,” Bill says, not knowing why he’s bringing it up. “People scratched out Betty Folcomb’s name and wrote yours in instead.”</p><p>“Huh.” Mike drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “I didn’t know that.”</p><p>“You’re not surprised?”</p><p>“Not really.” Mike makes a right turn, pulling up Ben and Beverly’s driveway. “I was always an outsider.”</p><p>Bill remembers those words, clear as day. They hurt more than he admitted, and now, he couldn’t be more certain of the reason why.</p><p>“Not to us,” Bill says. <em>Not to me</em>, is what he means.</p><p>Mike smiles, head ducking down. “Guess that’s why I stayed.”</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Beverly ushers them out of the rain when she opens the door, throwing one towel around Bill’s shoulders and standing on her tip toes to try and throw a second one around Mike’s. It’s adorable, because Mike has a whole foot over her, a fact that Bill has been reminded of constantly.</p><p>“I got it,” Mike says, taking the towel and using it to wipe his face. “Good thing you got back before the rain started.”</p><p>Beverly looks confused, and Mike clarifies, “How’s Ember?”</p><p>“Oh, right. She’s great, she’s all good. I, uh,” she glances at the kitchen, “I tried making a pizza but it’s got five minutes to go in the oven, so verdict on its edibility won’t be revealed until then.”</p><p>“You on an Italian cooking marathon or something?” Bill asks.</p><p>“It was the next recipe in the book,” Beverly says, shrugging easily. “Figured I’d give it a try since—”</p><p>A loud crash echoes in the sky outside, and for a split second, it shakes the walls. Bill jumps and automatically grabs onto the nearest surface out of reflex, which happens to be Mike’s arm.</p><p>“Bill?” Mike asks, putting his hand over Bill’s forearm.</p><p>Bill tries to smile, though he knows it probably looks more like a grimace. “Sorry. That was loud, wasn’t it? Caught me by surprise.”</p><p>“Are you sure that’s all?” Beverly asks, walking closer and putting the back of her hand against his forehead. “You look a little pale.”</p><p>“I’m fine, I’m just—”</p><p>The thunder rumbles again, and Bill pinches himself in the thigh so he doesn’t accidentally grip Mike’s arm too roughly. He should probably let go before he leaves a bruise, but his hand doesn’t want to move. He closes his eyes and forces himself to finish the sentence.</p><p>“—I’m just not used to the thunder. We don’t get much of that in LA,” he explains, being careful to keep his voice even. “Do you—Is it alright if I go upstairs? Still got that book review to do,” he says, tossing out a light laugh.</p><p>“Of course,” Beverly says, though her eyes remain concerned. “Do you want me to bring some slices up for you in a bit?”</p><p>“That’d be great, thanks.” Bill removes his hand from Mike’s arm, finger by finger, and he blushes when he sees the leftover imprint of his grip on Mike’s skin. “Sorry.”</p><p>“You really don’t need to keep apologizing all the time,” Mike says gently. “Want me to go upstairs with you?”</p><p>Of course Mike would offer to do that. That’s simply the type of person he is.</p><p>“But…” Bill trails off, looking at Beverly, who’s already pushing them both toward the stairs.</p><p>“Go, relax,” Beverly urges when they hit the bottom step. “The night’ll pass by in no time!”</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>A crackle of light flashes in the corner of his eye, and he curses underneath his breath when he flinches involuntarily, unable to catch himself in time before he drops his pen and it clatters noisily to the flawlessly polished wooden floor.</p><p>It’s no use—the thunder keeps roaring louder and louder as the night descends into full darkness. He’s been working on this with his therapist for longer than he’d like to admit. He tells himself there’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s just the sky throwing a tantrum, but every time he thinks he’s gotten somewhere, the storm always pulls him back in, reminding him of the pouring rain the day he lost Georgie.</p><p>He doesn’t want to alarm Mike. He knows Mike wouldn’t mind, but he doesn’t need another…another <em>thing</em>, another <em>flaw</em> that Mike has to tame.</p><p>“Bill?” It comes softly, barely audible from across the room.</p><p>“I’m fi—fi—fine,” Bill says, burrowing deeper into the book, hoping both it and the bed will swallow him whole. “I just read a really shitty sentence. Had to throw the pen to prove my point.”</p><p>Seriously, <em>He wrapped his arms around her waist like the sun that engulfs the night sky without fail every morning</em>? What a cliché, Bill thinks, just as his right shoulder dips and he’s completely tipped over into a warm embrace.</p><p>“I know you didn’t ask,” Mike says, prying the book out of Bill’s hands. “But it seemed like you needed it.”</p><p>“You’re right, I didn’t ask,” Bill says, feeling small and loose-limbed and a little bit like he’s… “But thanks.”</p><p>Mike buries his nose into the top of Bill’s head. “You were voted Most Polite for a reason.”</p><p>“You’re ridiculous.” <em>God</em>, Mike is so fucking cheesy. Bill traces his finger over Mike’s hands, something he’s been wanting to do ever since they were kids. They’re this close, after all. Might as well make the most of it.</p><p>“I’ll stay here if you want,” Mike says. He shifts further into the middle of the bed. “Sleep.”</p><p>“But I need to finish reviewing the book.”</p><p>“You’re Bill Denbrough. They can wait for you.”</p><p>Bill laughs. Mike is always giving him too much credit. “Your back’s going to be sore in the morning.” It sounds dirtier than he intended, so he quickly adds, “from sitting up all night, I mean.”</p><p>“Probably,” Mike agrees. Bill can’t see Mike’s face from their positions, but he’s pretty sure Mike has that signature amused look glinting in his eyes, judging by the tone of his voice. “You’ll owe me.”</p><p><em>I owe you too much already</em>, Bill thinks as he turns his head, ear meeting Mike’s heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump. It’s rhythmic, like Mike’s breathing. A human metronome, always keeping Bill on track.</p><p>Mike switches off the lamp, and Bill falls asleep in the eye of the storm, still feeling small and loose-limbed and a little bit like he’s…</p><p>Like he’s home.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>A crick in his neck wakes Bill up before the sun does, but he feels rested for the first time in a long while. Light snoring draws his attention to where Mike is splayed out beside him, boneless like a rag doll, but still breathing steadily.</p><p>It’s beautiful, really.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>. He has no right to call anybody’s writing cliché anymore. It was easier to deal with the sight when Mike was a few feet away on his own bed instead of a few centimeters away, sharing Bill’s space.</p><p>“You think too loudly,” Mike murmurs, and Bill jumps, pulling his arm away from where it had become entangled with Mike’s sometime during the night.</p><p>“Sorry—um, I mean.” Bill shakes the prickling sensation out of his arm. “Good morning. I wasn’t thinking.”</p><p>Mike grins. “Your brain’s always hard at work. You need to give it a break.”</p><p>“I make a living out of thinking. You should try it sometime.”</p><p>“Keep that up, and I’m not driving you.”</p><p>“To the airport?” He’d already asked Beverly to do it, managing to convince her after reminding her that she totally ducked out of it the first time by being a little shit.</p><p>“Yeah.” Mike props himself up with one arm. “I’ll leave whenever you do.”</p><p>“My flight’s at ten. That’s,” Bill lifts his watch, “in five hours.” Shit. Did they really sleep for that long? He’ll have to finish the review on the plane.</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“You should leave whenever you want to.”</p><p>Mike shrugs lazily. “I want to.”</p><p>“Bev’ll be sad being here alone until Ben gets back,” Bill tries. “You should keep her company until then.”</p><p>“That’s way out of character for her,” Mike states, raising an eyebrow. “You sure you’re an author?”</p><p>Bill opens his mouth to retort, then closes it.</p><p>“Besides,” Mike adds, “I’ve already stayed longer than I’d planned to. I’m glad that I got to see you though, so it all worked out.” He tacks it on like it’s a footnote of unimportance, and Bill is reminded of why it was so easy to fall in love with Mike in the first place—Mike is always so good at saying the right things without trying to.</p><p>Bill, on the other hand, can’t even figure out what it is that he wants to say to Mike. I love you? I’ll miss you? Please come home with me? He feels it all, inside his heart, but he has no idea how to translate any of that to words. Maybe it’s time for him to consider a new career path.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>After saying goodbye to Beverly—<em>this Christmas, you’re all coming over and that’s that on that, alright?</em> she’d ordered in between sniffles—they reverse out the driveway and begin a backwards journey towards the airport.</p><p>They arrive early. The flight board indicates that his plane is departing as scheduled. After Bill checks in, Mike shows up just in time to walk him to the security checkpoint.</p><p>“You didn’t have to park just for this,” Bill says, but he knew the moment he left the car that Mike would, because Mike’s that type of person.</p><p>“I’m not in a hurry.” Mike is looking down at him like this is the last time they’re going to see each other. It reminds Bill of the moment he regained his memories, because that was when he remembered the sorrow that he felt when he had to leave for college.</p><p>Mike had been the only one who couldn’t see him off at the airport, so Bill went to visit him the day before he left. It was hotter than usual. There was a light breeze that made the heat more bearable, but it didn’t make the entire situation itself any easier.</p><p>After he made rounds in the various chicken coops and pig pens, he finally found Mike sitting on the tree stump in the field out back.</p><p>“You’re al—al—always in the last place I look,” he said to Mike.</p><p>“I’m watching the sheep,” Mike replied, pointing to the left. And, after the breeze stopped, bringing the leaves and buzzing flies circling around them to a standstill, he added, “It’s gonna be weird not seeing you anymore.”</p><p>Bill flexed his fingers, shaking with nervous energy until he finally said, “Then we’ve gotta ma—ma—make the most of today.”</p><p>He convinced Mike to let him help plough the field, but all he got for his efforts were two scraped palms courtesy of tripping over an inconveniently placed log. Mike ended up dragging Bill inside the house and sitting him down on a kitchen stool while he dug up some bandages and carefully wrapped one around Bill’s right hand, then another around the left. Mike’s hands were somehow even warmer than the ninety-degrees that hung in the air around them. Bill was afraid that Mike was catching a fever so he told Mike as such, but Mike only stuffed his hands into his pockets and said, “I never catch fevers.”</p><p>They didn’t get any work done after that. Mike insisted that Bill stayed inside in case he worried his injuries even more, but Bill decidedly ignored him and followed Mike back out into the field.</p><p>“We’ll keep in touch,” Bill said to Mike at sunset, after all the sheep were gathered back into their pens, but Mike simply nodded and reminded him to change the bandages so they wouldn’t become infected.</p><p>That was the last full day Bill spent on the Hanlon farm.</p><p>Standing before the security checkpoint now, palms long healed and much coarser than before, Bill can’t help but feel self-conscious when he reaches out to grab the outstretched hand that Mike’s offering in front of him.</p><p>“Be safe,” Mike says, squeezing tightly and shaking firmly. Then, “Did you decide if you’re going to do it?”</p><p>Do what? Decide to not board the plane? Decide to run away to Boston with him? Decide to kiss him senseless in front of the hundreds of people bustling about?</p><p>Instead of asking Mike to clarify, Bill says, “I should go,” which is ridiculous, because he has a full three hours to get through security, and he’s not sure he wants to be left alone with his thoughts for that long.</p><p>“Okay,” Mike agrees, listening to him anyway. He squeezes Bill’s hand once more before pulling him in for a hug, then letting him go.</p><p>Bill shuffles himself in with the rest of the crowd and doesn’t look back.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>He lands in LA on Sunday evening. The next morning, he calls Paula to confirm their meeting on Wednesday, setting it for six p.m. because she’s booked all day. She orders him to take the next few days easy because she needs him in tip top shape for the tour, but he knows that’s her way of telling him to stay away from work for his own sake.</p><p>“What if I haven’t finished reviewing that book?” he asks.</p><p>“You wouldn’t have called if you haven’t,” Paula says and hangs up promptly after.</p><p>He does as he’s told. He spends the rest of Monday walking around LA, wandering aimlessly and really looking at his surroundings. It’s a fast-paced city. It’s also the opposite of Derry. He doesn’t know why he never realized that, even after regaining his memories. Did he subconsciously choose a place that would purposefully not remind him of where…where he came from? There’s the bad, but there’s also the good that he left behind. He loved the grass and the trees and the stream, all so different from the bustling of tourists.</p><p>On Tuesday, he drives to Angeles National Forest and spends the entire day hiking. It’s a good day for it, the sun bright in the sky but with enough clouds to not need sunscreen. He ends up being invited to a bunch of picnics by some sweet elderly folk and learns a lot about their grandsons and granddaughters and what a perfect couple he’d make with each of them. He barely manages to escape unattached.</p><p>When Wednesday rolls around, he stays in. At lunchtime, he tries out a recipe for chicken marsala he finds online, accidentally lets the meat sit in the skillet for too long, and overcooks the mushrooms. He orders Chinese take-out and it’s delivered to him about fifteen minutes after he finishes scrubbing the burnt residue off the skillet.</p><p>There’s a fortune cookie sitting atop the paper container with his stir-fry. He stares at the cookie for a long while before setting it aside and turning on the TV, paying it no mind until he’s finished with his food and he’s shuffling all the trash into the plastic bag.</p><p>It’s just a fortune cookie. A harmless fortune cookie.</p><p>He cracks it in half and pulls out the strip of paper lodged inside, turning it over.</p><p>
  <em>Sometimes the thing we’re looking for has been beside us the entire time.</em>
</p><p>It’s so generic. Derivative. Unoriginal. It could mean anything, could apply to any schmuck who got this cookie. It didn’t have to be him.</p><p>He thinks of Mike covering a blanket over him and Mike crowding him against the shelf and Mike tipping him into his embrace and <em>Be safe</em> and <em>There are other places I’d rather be</em> and <em>Because I know you</em>.</p><p>He pulls out the note inside his wallet and sets it next to the fortune.</p><p>
  <em>In case you lost yours. -Love, Mike</em>
</p><p>Well…maybe it’s a sign. Maybe.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Bill walks determinedly up to the front gate of the Warner Bros. studio, flashes his credentials to the guard, and doesn’t stop walking until he reaches Paula’s office, because otherwise, he’ll chicken out and turn back around. He knocks when he finds the room, strides inside and announces “I’ll do it,” not waiting for Paula to close the door.</p><p>She pauses on her way back to her seat. “Do what?”</p><p>Bill swings his arms back and forth, then keeps them planted behind his back. “The book reading. I’ll do it.”</p><p>Paula stares at him. “Are you sure?”</p><p>Bill nods, before his nerves get the better of him. “Yep.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>And that’s that. Because Paula’s a no-nonsense type of person and she doesn’t ever pry into matters that don’t have any bearing on the end goal.</p><p>Their meeting ends about an hour later. Paula reminds him of the day and time for the book reading before sending him on his way. It’s around seven p.m. when he begins walking down the studio lot, and he nearly runs into a prop for an action movie that’s filming next door because his mind is buzzing.</p><p>All he could think about during the meeting was saying goodbye to Mike in front of the security checkpoint, Mike’s hand warm in his. He boarded the plane imagining that hand in other places that aren’t work-appropriate to mention.</p><p>He really should’ve kissed Mike before he left him in the middle of the JFK crowd. It would have been a good time to do it.</p><p>Maybe he should call him. Not that he knows what he’d even say, but half a week in Mike’s absence already feels too long. He pulls up his phone and scrolls through his contacts, slowing down when he reaches the Ms.</p><p>As he’s standing there staring at Mike’s name in his phone, a distinct sense of numbness on the back of his neck begins to creep up his jaw, and he starts, flinching forward. “What the fuck?”</p><p>“Wow, that was a record ten seconds.”</p><p>Bill turns around, clutching his neck. “<em>Rich?</em>”</p><p>“Hey, asswipe,” Richie salutes, a beer dangling from his fingers. “No need for the long stare, I know I’m sexy and irresistible.”</p><p>“Jesus,” Bill says, still rubbing at his neck, because that beer was fucking cold, and Richie shouldn’t even be drinking on the lot, where did he even <em>get</em> that, what the <em>fuck.</em> “Why are you here? Did you—How’d you know I was here?”</p><p>Richie scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m filming two down from here, was taking a break when I saw your sorry ass.”</p><p>Two down? That’s the stage they use for… “You got the deal for your routine?”</p><p>Richie grins. “Yeah, man! Show premieres in six months, DVD and blu drop another six months after.”</p><p>“Holy crap. Congratulations, you deserve it,” Bill says sincerely. “Why didn’t you tell us?”</p><p>“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Richie accuses, finger pointed at Bill’s nose. “I’m still sending advance copies to all of you this Christmas, can’t let the others suffer because of you. <em>Don’t</em> tell anyone or I’ll gut you.”</p><p>Bill puts his hands up. “I won’t, I won’t.”</p><p>Richie nudges him with the end of the beer bottle. “So? What’s wrong with you? You’re all mopey and shit.”</p><p>Bill folds his arms defensively in front of his torso. “I’m—I’m not mopey.”</p><p>“Sure you are,” Richie says, gesturing vaguely in his direction. “Look at that sad posture. Those sad eyes.”</p><p>“I’m not sad.”</p><p>“There are two possible reasons,” Richie continues, ignoring him. “One, you didn’t finish your book in time for your tour—”</p><p>“Hey—”</p><p>“—Or two, you’re having trouble with love.”</p><p>Bill twitches. “What are you, a shrink?”</p><p>“I already know your tour starts next week,” Richie says, bored. “So, it’s gotta be the second one.” He switches his beer into his other hand and places the now empty and very cold hand on Bill’s shoulder. “Are you and Mike having relationship problems?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>. Because there is no relationship, so there are no—no—” Bill brushes Richie’s hand off, “there are no problems to be had.”</p><p>Richie sighs dramatically, as if Bill’s inconvenienced the entire world and Richie personally. “Please, spare me. Bev said—”</p><p>“You really need to stop talking to her,” Bill mutters.</p><p>“<em>Bev said</em>,” Richie emphasizes, “that you shared a room.”</p><p>“Her fault.”</p><p>“You got lunch together and he paid!”</p><p>“That’s what friends do sometimes,” Bill defends. He does feel bad about it, but Mike insisted, and Mike’s very persistent when his mind is set on something.</p><p>“He practically dragged you to the library with him! Someplace nobody else except you two idiots would be into!”</p><p>“Okay, you’re exaggerating, nobody dragged anybody, it was voluntary—”</p><p>“Bill. My man. I’m not the writer here but even I recognize the signs, alright?” Richie exclaims, beer shaking wildly in his hand. “These are the cheesy, overdone tropes in every romcom. You should know!”</p><p>Bill wrinkles his nose. “I write horror, which is, like, the opposite of a romcom.”</p><p>“You clearly haven’t seen <em>Shaun of the Dead</em>.” Richie gives him the stink eye. “You are also very clearly missing the point.”</p><p>“Do you ever have a point?”</p><p>“I’m <em>saying</em>, Mike’s a gentleman, and you’re not, so you nerds are perfect for each other,” Richie says magnanimously. “You better snatch that up quick before some other hoe does.”</p><p>Bill sighs. “Look, fine, even if I—even if I w—w—want that, what’s to say he does? I can’t—I can’t make that assumption. I feel it sometimes, when we’re alone, but I—I can’t assume, okay? I can’t do that. It’s not that easy.”</p><p>He’s too old, is what he means—too old to risk making a mistake again, especially now that there’s no small-town curse to hide behind. One false step and there’s no taking back the landmine, no false memories to make it go away.</p><p>“You’re not gonna mess it up,” Richie says. “That’s my department.”</p><p>Bill looks at Richie, really looks, and this is…this is the Richie after Pennywise, after the jump off the cliff, in the lake.</p><p>“Just...” Richie’s voice cracks as he wrings his hands. “Don’t…Don’t wait too long, okay? Don’t be like me.”</p><p>Richie looks so vulnerable. Bill swallows back tears, nodding slowly.</p><p>“And hey,” Richie says, louder. “Don’t fuck it up, alright? I know what I said but I don’t wanna have to choose between you two if you do, so don’t you fucking dare put me through that or I’ll kick your ass, I swear to God.”</p><p>Bill doesn’t know what else to do but rush forward and capture Richie, his best friend Richie, in a tight hug.</p><p>“Woah, dude, save it for your beau,” Richie says, but he wraps his own arms tightly around Bill’s shoulders, letting the beer bottle slip through his fingers and onto the ground. Bill still can’t believe that Richie, of all people, is taller than him now.</p><p>“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Bill says honestly, because it’s what he owes Richie, and it’s what Richie deserves.</p><p>Richie lets go and punches him lightly in the shoulder. “You’d be dead without me.”</p><p>They stare at each other, and Bill can’t help it, he cracks up, Richie following soon after, and it’s really nice, hearing their own laughter echoing in the small alley behind the studio lot. He knows it’ll never be the same, but for a short moment that night, it’s like they’re thirteen again.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>The next week passes by in a blur. Bill barely has the time to register what’s happening before he’s standing in the middle of the Barnes and Noble, doing his best to comb down his wild hair in a way that makes him look somewhat like the cardboard cutout version of himself that’s next to the front door.</p><p>It’s a bigger crowd than he was expecting. Paula had warned him this would be the case, because everyone was “anxious to see what the new Bill Denbrough has come up with,” her words, not his. He doesn’t know how much he believes that, anyway—but it really is a huge crowd.</p><p>After formally checking in with the staff, he waits in the wings of the store’s adjacent room, keeps his ears peeled for his name to be called, and steps out in front of the podium when he hears it. He lowers the microphone, always set at a higher height than perfect, then waves at everyone to assuage the applause.</p><p>“Thank you for the wonderful introduction. And thank you all for coming. This book is quite different from my others. For that reason, it’s my pleasure to start off this tour in my…my home…my home town.” He stumbles over those last few words, and he knows it has nothing to do with his stutter.</p><p>He stops, mind suddenly drawn blank. He’s prepared a whole preamble, rehearsed it to exhaustion, and it’s not like he hasn’t done something like this a million times over, but—nothing.</p><p>He senses the crowd growing restless, and he wonders how long he’s been standing there. He forces himself to look up, to address the murmuring that’s beginning to gather, and that’s when he sees Mike leaning against a bookshelf in the back of the crowd.</p><p><em>What is he doing here? How did he find him? Why isn’t he in Boston?</em> A parade of questions travels in and out of his head, but not a single one of them seems right.</p><p>Deep breath in, deep breath out.</p><p>He looks Mike steadily in the eye from his spotlight under the podium. “Actually, that’s not true. I grew up in Derry. It’s a small town in Maine, I’m certain none of you have even heard of it, it’s practically in the middle of nowhere, and I’ve gotta say, it’s pretty shitty most of the time.”</p><p>A light chuckle ripples through the crowd, and he lets it die down before continuing. “You think I’m joking, but I’m not. Public transportation is barren, there’s nothing to do at night, and the food is awful. But, none of that matters, you know? Derry is many things, but it’s also a beautiful place. When the sun sets and you’re in the right place at the right time…that’s when Derry is at its best.</p><p>“I’ve spent the last couple years of my life wondering who I might’ve become if I didn’t grow up there. Maybe I would’ve been happier for more years of my career. But then again, maybe not. Who’s to say? What I do know is that, having grown up in Derry, it’s where I met a very special group of people in my life.”</p><p>He smiles when Mike smiles, and he directs his gaze to the rest of the audience.</p><p>“This book wouldn’t have been written without them. I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world.”</p><p>He turns the page to chapter one, and he doesn’t trip over his words for the rest of the reading.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>The staff arranges for his signing table to be situated near the front entrance of the store. Mike is the last person in line.</p><p>“You’re supposed to be in Boston,” Bill says.</p><p>“Thought I’d take a detour.”</p><p>“This isn’t exactly in the same direction.”</p><p>“It was worth it.” Mike steps forward carefully, book in hand. “Can I ask for an autograph?”</p><p>Bill eyes the cover, embroidered with his own name in all caps, hovering tauntingly a few inches away from his head. “Who should I make it out to?”</p><p>“Whoever you want,” Mike says. Quietly, calmly.</p><p>Bill takes the book, feeling the weight of its pages in his hand, then listens to the spine crackle as he opens its cover for the first time.</p><p>
  <em>The thing about being a loser is you don’t have anything to lose.</em>
</p><p>His heart speeds up, and he tells himself again: deep breath in, deep breath out.</p><p>He puts ink to paper, writing just under the line reading <em>For Stan and Eddie</em> on the dedication page. The silence as he does so is deafening, drowning out even the loudest of beats inside his chest.</p><p>When he’s done, he waits for the ink to dry, then closes the book, handing it back to Mike.</p><p>
  <em>If you find someone worth holding onto…</em>
</p><p>“Take good care of it,” Bill says, both relieved and disappointed that Mike doesn’t read what he’s written before he disappears out the door.</p><p>
  <em>…never ever let them go.</em>
</p><p>Maybe it’s for the best.</p><p>It’s nearing closing hours, so he lingers behind, partly because some stragglers come by to say hi at his table, but mostly in case he leaves too early and catches up to Mike in the streets.</p><p>The clock strikes eight not too soon after, and the staff offer to take him out to a late dinner. Normally, he’d be up for it—happy booksellers, better sales—but he’s used up his extraversion quota for the day, and what he really wants right now is a bed. And solitude. And something else that they can’t give.</p><p>After thanking everyone and staring at his own cardboard cutout for longer than necessary, he pushes open the double doors, ringing the bells once, and walks in the opposite direction of where Mike had headed.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>There’s something chiming in his ears. Bill reaches for his cellphone, thinking that Paula’s springing another surprise on him—extending the tour to more stops, perhaps? Please, God, anything but that—but the screen only informs him that it’s five in the morning.</p><p>The chiming repeats, and he’s awake enough now to register that it’s echoing all throughout his house. Who the hell is out there this early? He trudges downstairs, opens the door, and is about to snark <em>the no solicitation sign is there for a reason, asshole</em> when he finds himself staring at his own handwriting.</p><p>
  <em>I meant it the first time. -Love, Bill</em>
</p><p>He looks up.</p><p>“I meant it, too,” Mike blurts out, lowering the book.</p><p>Bill blinks, staggering forward before catching himself. “Oh.”</p><p>“Both times. The first time, when I, the call—and, yeah, the second time, too, with the…with the…”</p><p>“Oh.” His hand automatically goes to his back pocket to thumb at his wallet with Mike’s note buried deep in it, but then he remembers he’s still wearing his pajamas, and that it’s still five fucking a.m. “Um. Good.”</p><p>Mike’s face goes through an impressive array of expressions, and Bill wonders if he should say something to put him out of his misery, but the truth is his tongue is numb, and he can’t believe this entire conversation is happening.</p><p>“It’s easier when you’re not in front of me,” Mike finally says. The book is still open to that darn page. “I tried to tell you yesterday, and I had a better…a better thing planned out for today. I’m sorry.”</p><p>Bill nods, a little out of it. “I get it.”</p><p>“No. You deserve more.” Mike drops his arms, the book tumbling shut with a quick snap. “I was afraid. I was a cowa—”</p><p>“Mikey.” Bill stands up straight, suddenly alert. “Mikey, if you finish that sentence, I’m going to kill you.”</p><p>Mike smiles, sheepish. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”</p><p>Bill opens the door wider. “Well, then that makes two of us.”</p><p>Mike looks like he’s about to complain, so Bill strides forward, book lodged uncomfortably between their chests as he rises up and, fuck it, <em>be true, be brave</em>, kisses Mike.</p><p>The book must fall to the ground, because there’s a loud thump the moment Mike wraps both hands behind Bill’s head, cradling it carefully. Bill nearly falls back against the doorframe from the movement, but he’s caught by those strong arms and he practically, embarrassingly, swoons.</p><p>“You,” he says, breathless when they part, “are the bravest person I know.”</p><p>“Bill—”</p><p>“Don’t—Don’t you dare sell yourself short,” because he’s going to get this through Mike’s thick skull if it’s the last thing he does.</p><p>Mike is staring at him like he’s some sort of anomaly that shouldn’t exist in the universe, like he’s defied the very laws of physics and Mike has to rearrange the entire galaxy because gravity doesn’t make sense anymore.</p><p>Funny, because Mike has always been the sun to him, a constant blazing star hanging high in the sky, pulling planets into his orbit. Even when Bill didn’t have his memories, Mike was always there watching over him, watching over them all, and he knows that if it weren’t for Mike, he wouldn’t be here today with the possibility of writing his own tomorrow. No endings, just the next chapter, and the next, and the next.</p><p>“I think,” Bill says, shivering when a light breeze passes by, “we should get off this porch.”</p><p>Mike glances inside, past the front door that’s still ajar.</p><p>“It’s really cold, Mikey. If we’re not going inside, then please do something else about it.”</p><p>It’s a cheap ploy, but Mike pulls him forward by the arms, laces their hands together, and stations them firmly in the front pockets of his jacket, so he counts it as a win.</p><p>“I hear Portland’s nice this time of year,” Mike says.</p><p>Bill hums. “It’s north of here, so probably still cold.”</p><p>“Maybe.” Mike runs his thumbs over Bill’s knuckles. “Maybe not.”</p><p>Deep breath in, deep breath out. “Want to find out for yourself?”</p><p>He’s got nineteen more cities’ worth of strangers to talk to, which is a little daunting. Then again, Mike was a stranger for twenty-seven years of his life. It’s turned out pretty well.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>